Wishy washy wispy writing 🙂
I re-visit this city in my dreams, they call it New York, but it’s only a segment, mostly depopulated it feels, many scant boroughs. Last night I wasn’t myself, but an actor in this film with no cameras, following around these characters I had never met before. I was a different name, a different look, and my friends on the run from something.
Hiding in plain sight, an abandoned building owned by a Chinese tyrant, mat on the floor with hot plates cookware and memories of having a shred of a life, toothy grins in reminiscence.
When alone, one asks himself if God abandoned him long ago, that his faith and yearning is all an exercise in absence. I wake up from these dreams with copyrighted songs exchanging on loop in the corners of my ears. if you refuse to acknowledge the clicking in the distance, it rings tinnitus until death, another one of life’s tiny murders recorded in the data minute. Here, I consult with the ghosts.
There’s an uncomfortable, true melancholy in daze like these, that take place in this city. They remind me of all that aimless drifting, moving molasses walk down these streets. All this soulless wander, broken by the end of it. You had nowhere else to go. So you’re forced endless to relive the feeling, only in a place you once believed to be your personal Mecca, the great city where all questions will be answered. It turns out to be as lost as anywhere else, barren urban wasteland, hardly any noise to register. The inner fear is deafening. The realization, a house of bricks, that you’re still stuck with yourself no matter what you do. And these experiences you so desire will always elude you, time is just ticking past and your dreams in memorium a long time behind you. I sick with tremor knowing how much time i’ve wasted these last dying years, when I gave it all in. Yet, I persisted, I lived.
So we must comfort ourselves in the belief that there is a certain higher class that can afford to deny the small thoughts: having a shower, what time is necessary to cook chicken thighs. Little shit. I’ve ascended past the stars and shot skyscrapers high into the atmosphere, and I wake up at 2 in the morning asking myself if carbon monoxide poisoning is possible in this apartment I live in. Try to sleep some more, maybe that’ll help take a few more years off your life. Pray for death. Keep praying for death to save you.
The gene pool goes away and it’s the blessing you wish for. Your family was just so terrible, your lineage just so devastatingly racist, it’s best to get that vasectomy when your dick starts working properly so that there’s no point of return. Freeze the eggs, tie the tubes, and watch the world float by you on shit creek, where you’ll have a lovely state-mandated trailer in reward for your brave sacrifice.
That phone ringing in the background sounds ancient, we’re much too advanced now. We hardly need to trifle with frivolity like time past. We’re a progressive generation, everything moves forward no matter the cost to life expectancy. Sending ashes into the atmosphere is a dying business.
Always at the precipice, never penetrating. Enough has always been my specialty. When I was close, it was always surrounded by some form of disgust — an audience spectacle, diarrhea in a bathtub, or a deceptive trap of rubber bands elastic. Sometimes i’m jealous of the eunuch. Other times I remember they didn’t have a choice. I entertain the thought of killing for your scarcity. Lovers are doomed to Hellfire, i’m glad to be a brick. My therapist absolved me of my guilt.
I used to have some class, some style. Wear the makeup, dress the hair, underwear. Sleep eat pray on a futon, the indentation of the weight of your fat back will only make minor scoliosis, I delineate. I won’t ever pay for a chiropractor, i’ll wait a few years for a friend to fail Physical Therapy classes and get a cheap session on the baby-changer in an Applebee’s bathroom.
I’m reminded somehow of sitting in the back of a Greyhound bus, I think it was on it’s way to Albuquerque. The blue piss liquid sloshing gravity behind me I could hear it, I picked the hottest seat in the house. I was always blessed with these shallow lucks, the seat next to me someone less homeless looking than usual. He still seemed to have his entire life tied into suitcases. We need to bring all of our Star Wars t-shirts and a microwave with us in case the plague takes over. We pay for experiences in this country.
Not like overcrowded India, where this Christian pastor is from. He marveled in Virginia, at a ground that he could actually see. Comparatively, he said in India that the entire fountain would be covered in people, the ground and the sky, pictures impossible. He thanked God that the Christians came and civilized his people. He believed they would still be banging rocks and sticks together without the will of the Bible. Who knows now if he was right. Even then I believed him. How do you argue with somebody who has faith? Especially in what they know to be true? He enjoyed reclining barefoot and eating a bag of grapes he brought in a plastic bag. The Middle East is so quirky.
The great joy of aging, if there is only one, is that for better or worse you tend to stop caring as to whether or not you’re lying to yourself. A reliable victim to the pangs of circumstance, with a heavily refracted glint of worth. My survival instinctual, doomed to the mores of life’s appointed remediation. Trifle worries: dying on the toilet, getting shockwaved by shower water during a thunderstorm.
I’m starting to care no longer that my transmissions go unseen, unanswered. Perhaps it’s best this way. Little children needn’t be seen nor heard, we’ll just scrounge in the grass under the trees for a few more years before we’re worth any heed. With the internet, I am immortal above the visceral nothing.